Molested Roses

By Heather Alexis Moore

My memoir has taken eight years to write, and though it is chock full of horrors, it covers only a small part of my life. The rest of my life has just begun. These photo filled pages take you on a journey. It begins with my birth, in the How ya doin? section of Brooklyn, NY, at a time when sexual abuse was not discussed. It is an account of what life was like growing up in an Italian family, and it captures the many gatherings and celebrations with a focus upon the loving preparation and presentation of food. Winding throughout this colorful visual palette, is the severe mental and physical abuse that my mother and I endured at the hands of my father. I know that you will find reading this journal compelling and gracious. It began as a tool for self-healing. It resulted as a gift to present to those who need strength to get out of an abusive relationship and begin to live. It is also a Thank-you note with love to my mom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 30, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462841059

Heather Alexis Moore

Heather Alexis Moore attended private Catholic elementary and high schools. Other education includes: a graduate cum laude from Hunter College, NY, with a BA degree in design and a graduate of the NY School of Broadcasting and Announcing. As a radio announcer for over fifteen years, Heather has written and produced many commercials and news stories. As a freelance writer, her credits include concert and play reviews for several publications and articles and photos for newspapers such as The Florida Catholic (she was also an editor for a short period). Her hobbies include painting watercolors, exercising (engaging in Zumba, an international rhythm-based dance class), eating healthy foods, traveling, and playing with her two cats, “Daltrey and Aubrey.” Oh and Heather is proud to announce that she is also an avid Rick Springfield fan.

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Copyright © 2009 by Heather Alexis Moore.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Note: Although all characters and their roles in this memoir are real, some names have been altered.

Note: Some sequences and dates of events, although real, may have been transposed.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

66201

Contents

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Epilogue

Dedications

To my grandparents, Grammy and Grandpa: You taught me how to love unconditionally and how such a bond of love between two people can overflow into everyone’s life.

To my heart mates, Lynn and Lena: You taught me how to receive selfless love by your encouragement, strength, and limitless concern.

To my cousins, Janet and Lorette: You provided the laughter needed as a child to survive and the memories shared and cherished as an adult.

To my Uncle Guiseppi: You made my head spin by the belief that you had in me, especially in my artistic talent. You often said: Heather, you can do anything that you put your mind to, and I owe you deep gratitude.

To my Aunt Allie: You often listened to me, gave advice, and taught me how to nourish my body and spirit with the delicious meals that you cooked just for me.

To my Aunt Jenny: Your insistence on attending mass each Sunday prepared the way for the Lord to be received into my heart by your example in the love of God.

To my friends, Rosemary, Carol, and Elizabeth: You taught me how to accept crosses gracefully as you provided selfless care of your aging parents.

To my friend, Eileen: You daily provided a thousand Irish welcomes to my aching heart and listened to my problems as if I was your daughter.

To my friend, Loren: You helped me to believe in my self-worth and to always follow my dreams.

To my sister: You witnessed our parents’ problems and I praise God for being able to share laughter and tears of all our days, and I cherish our continuing closeness.

To John: You provided the sense of humor needed to surmount the sadness, and taught me how to be a survivor.

To Nancy: Your encouraging and steadfast voices walked me through many pet dilemmas.

To Irene: Your friendship gave me the joy in having a faith mate to talk about and share our love of the Lord.

To my father: Your lion’s roar in my youth became a sheepish bleat in your last days. I believe that your last years of physical and mental anguish and your acknowledgment of the presence of God in your life in your last minutes earned you a place in our Lord’s kingdom. I thank you for my life and its lessons for others to embrace. May you rest in peace.

And to my dear mother: Your angelic voice was my world many years ago in that porcelain sink. You taught me to walk by faith, and to always look for the rainbows after the storms of life. I love you, Mom.

This is the true story of two lives, a mother and daughter, that survived years of abuse by a husband and father. It is the story of forgiveness, renewal, and new beginnings.

Preface

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Mom and Dad and me

It began at a dance. She was on line to check in her coat. He said to her, You are standing on the wrong line. This is the men’s line. She did not have on her glasses. He asked her out. She said that he would have to meet her mother. Her mother did not approve of any of her suitors. They were either too short, too frail, too blind, too lame. Her mother approved of this man: He looks strong, and he has hardworking hands. He will make a good husband. He and she were married. I, Della Adano, was born.

Chapter One

I was perched upon the rippled top of the porcelain kitchen sink as water trickled into it. Mmmm, lukewarm, your bath is ready now. I looked into my mother’s eyes, and I was lost in the rimmed pools of sea green as she gently placed me into that water. The satin flounced yellow bow in my curly locks adorned my tiny body as I splashed in the bubbles. In my left hand was a squeaky yellow rubber ducky, and in my right hand was a larger hand. I felt secure by that hold. I trusted that hold. However life, with its dangerous and cruel twist and turns, would break that bond. My mother’s hand would not be there to hold me and protect me from drowning in my life’s path.

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Me in sink with soap.

As the washcloth covered my body with soap, tears formed in my eyes. Big tears! It seems that I was allergic to the soap—Ivory soap. The soap that was supposed to be 99 percent pure! Ironically, my mother photographed me in that sink to enter me in the ivory baby commercial contest. Those tears created by fumes of soap would be changed into many tears of despair and depression. The laughter would soon end and both of our lives spiral downward. I was child living in Boro Park, Brooklyn, where I was born.

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House on 49th & 18 Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Me at 18 mos.

My days in that second floor apartment on 49th Street were quite busy. I was greatly pleased by my window view of the house next door. On tiptoes, I gazed through the hazy glass to catch a glimpse of the men dressed in black coats with big hats and long curls rocking back and forth and chanting. I implored mother to explain this strange behavior. They are praying, she whispered to me, and a deafening silence fell upon the two of us. Three words, synagogue, rabbi, and kosher became part of my vocabulary at that early age. Another favorite task was hammering colored wooden pegs down and then turning the six-holed thing over, and banging them down again. I cherished those times with my mother. We talked then. We had fun. In fact, my mother was my movie star mom. Her dark long wavy hair cascaded down upon her slender shoulders, and her perfect figure was enhanced by a big belted cinched waist and seamed hose with high-heeled shoes. Mother always wore flowing dresses with many bright colors. Each day, her nimble fingers would break tiny vials of glass to release different floral scents of perfume. Mother had a garden of flowers to choose from including Iris, Violet, Peony, and Gardenia. She would place these drops on her pulse points. Her favorite scent was Red Rose. This smell would be with me through my life, as well as the scent of Ivory soap.

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Mom

Mary

Both scents would bring tears to my eyes. As I amused myself with my pounding, my mother would go about her duties as domestic engineer. Ironing was paramount on my mother’s list. I remember how many morning hours seem to dwindle away as that pointed blade descended into every nook of big work shirts. Even towels, pillowcases, and sheets didn’t escape one or two swipes of the hot iron. Other activities included sewing and crocheting. My mother would mend everything: socks, curtains, dresses, and even underwear. Newly purchased hankies were edged with layers of colored stitches and then monogrammed and given as gifts. Mother was never idle. The afternoon hours were the best. After her chores were completed, mother would put on her favorite album and sing.

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Me

Music from those black vinyl discs permeated the air and mother’s voice followed the notes up and down like hills of rising and falling dominos. She would put La Traviata on the Victrolla and assume the role of Viola. Her eyes would twinkle, and her hands were held out like a mannequin’s in a store window as her first soprano solo portrayed the lovesick damsel. Other times, her beautiful voice would accompany stringed arrangements of songs like I’m Always Chasing Rainbows, which was one of her most repeated repertoires. Mother seemed so content back then, so secure, and so self-confident. My mother was a vision of beauty.

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My father was the descendent of Italian born parents. His black curly hair, high cheek bones, and sense of humor made him a magnet for the women. Beneath that friendly, accessible appearance lurked a time bomb of a temper, which went off often in our home.

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Dad Ray

Waking up each morning was not a pleasant experience. The sound of my father’s voice jolted my dreams and shook my little world. It would commence at 7:45 a.m. each weekday when he would telephone Uncle Franco (his brother, employer and licensed electrician) to receive his daily work assignment. The banter quickly escalated into a real tirade when my father heard that he was being sent to repair an electrical outage in a tenement located in downtown Brooklyn. Why the hell do I have to go to that god damned place? He would shout angrily and ever so loud. Then he would slam down the phone, get up, grab the piece of paper with the address scribbled upon it, and storm out of the apartment. My mother was often quiet as she made coffee and toasted bread. Once in a blue moon, she would meekly propose, Oh Ray, don’t… however she was told to Shut up through his clenched teeth. My heart raced throughout these daily ordeals. When I heard the door slam, I knew that the battle was over with no casualties, at least not physical, this time. I had no inkling of the severe psychological and emotional scars that were being etched upon our minds and hearts.

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After father left, mother would wash the dishes; she often let the night dinner dishes soak overnight so the sink was usually full in the morning. This was another thing that made father angry resulting in many accusations hurled at her for being a lousy housewife. Dish after dish, her hands would briskly swirl the lotion in a circular motion, and rinse and put each one on the rack to air dry. It seemed that as she washed each dish, the harsh words of my father’s voice were washed down the drain, and our lives were once again cleansed to enjoy a happy day. She took off her apron, and I sucked at the chocolate drink Yoohoo in my bottle as I watched Popeye eat his spinach and knock out Bluto in an effort to rescue Olive Oyl. I wonder if my heart hoped for a real Popeye to come and rescue my mother.

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Popeye and Bluto

Slowly, my mother would emerge. The music would be turned on, and my mother would become a diva again. This time Bizet’s, Carmen would envelope our senses. Today, we would need a really vibrant and titillating sound to awaken our performance. Gradually, the sunshine broke through the clouds, and we were bathed in streams of color. We became the swirling Spanish dancers in Carmen and with castanets in hand, we secured the new day.

Once a week, our adventures would take us to the park. Today would be a very special day. Mother was at the sewing machine with the needle bobbin feverishly pumping up and down as she pushed the aquamarine fabric through to be stitched. She clipped the thread, got up, and exclaimed, This is for you to wear today. I was dressed in my beautiful polished cotton jumper, puffy sleeved white blouse, white laced top socks, and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes and we were off. Mother pushed me in the stroller up and down curbs, one block, two blocks, three blocks, and then she would announce that we would stop at the library first. I didn’t enjoy the news; in fact, I hated the thought of being taught how to read. I was only four and a half years old. Luckily, mother read to me. She did allow me to help select the books. I chose oversized books with lots of pictures like the Madeline books with her adventures in Paris. Mother’s early attempts to make me proficient in reading didn’t blossom until I was in seventh grade. After the library stop, our journey would continue. Up and down several more curbs. One time, mother bought me a hot dog to eat while we strolled along. I squeezed the bun too tightly, and out popped the frank like a jack in the box onto the pavement. Surprised, I starred at the empty bun. Mother responded, You are not getting another. She was on a fixed budget.

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Me

My father gave her only ten dollars a week to buy groceries. I did not care; I would eat the naked bun. After all, we were on our way to the park. Once there, I descended upon the Swing Swoons. My challenge was to mount the big swings. They were the ones without the harness, which was featured on the baby swings. Realizing that my feet could not reach the dirt, I would settle for being pushed in the harnessed swings by my mother. Higher, higher I would beckon, and my hopes and dreams soared into the blue skies and puffy white clouds. Mother and I laughed together as we returned home in the late afternoon. I would strew the books on the floor and study the pictures as mother began to prepare dinner. As dinnertime approached, a sense of heaviness would begin to fill our apartment. Mother chopped, mixed, and fried most dinners. Hamburgers were frequently prepared with lots of sautéed onions. She had an uncanny way of burning the outside of the burgers with the inside remaining close to raw. Perhaps, it was due to